


My Head Is A Weathervane

by torakowalski



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire really, really wants Enjolras’s arms around him, which is why Enjolras isn’t allowed to be here.  Grantaire would climb inside him, if he could, and patch up the holes in himself with little bits and pieces of Enjolras, but that’s not healthy.  He needs to be a whole person first, before he’s allowed Enjolras back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Head Is A Weathervane

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks to Wildestranger, who audienced this and gave me lots of good advice.
> 
>  **Warnings:** This fic focuses on recovery from depression and anxiety, and the aftermath of a suicide attempt. Grantaire thinks a lot about what he needs to do to get by on a day-to-day basis. Please be careful, if those things are likely to trigger you, and I’m more than happy to answer any questions you might have, if you need more detailed warnings.
> 
> ETA: Fixed the formatting for the text messages! Sorry about that.

There’s a girl who Grantaire doesn’t know sitting with the rest of Les Amis, when he pushes open the door to the Musain. At least that takes care of any awkward moments. 

“Hello,” he says, walking straight up to her. “I don’t know you.”

Everyone goes quiet on the same indrawn breath and then conversation buzzes around him, everyone saying his name at the same time. He doesn’t look at them, can’t look at them; he got himself here, because it was important, but he can’t actually be any braver.

It’s possible he’s staring at the new girl far too intently, desperately, because something softens in her expression, before she holds out her hand and says, “I’m Cosette.”

“Cosette,” he says, like her name and her extended hand are a lifeline. He squeezes her hand, then kisses it, even though she almost certainly meant for him to shake it.

Beside her, Marius twitches very slightly, but doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at Grantaire the way they all probably are, like one cross word is going to stop Grantaire’s heart.

“And you’re Grantaire?” she asks, letting him leave her hand in his and his eyes on her face. She’s very pretty; if he painted delicate things, he’d paint her. 

“I am,” he agrees. He likes that she doesn’t pretend that his friends haven’t been gossiping about him, while he’s been away.

“Would you like to sit with us?” Cosette asks him. “There’s plenty of room.” Marius is almost plastered to her side, so that’s definitely true.

“I would like nothing more,” Grantaire tells her. “But I think I need to turn around and face the others, don’t I?”

Cosette looks over his shoulder. “I think they’d appreciate it.”

Grantaire squeezes her hand. “You’re lovely,” he says. “Marius, marry her.”

Marius turns such a delightful shade of bright red that Grantaire is still smiling when he straightens up and waves vaguely around the room. 

He can’t make his eyes focus on any one person, he’s too tense and panicky for that, but he knows where they’ll be: split between the tables scattered around the Musain, far enough apart to have private conversations, but close enough to start a group discussion at the drop of a hat.

“R,” says the blur that’s right in front of him and then Courfeyrac’s arms wrap around him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Grantaire says, probably hugging back too tightly, but Courfeyrac lets him. That seems to cause a stampede, because the next thing he knows, he’s being passed to Jehan, and then to Joly and Bossuet, Bahorel is fistbumping him and Combeferre is squeezing his shoulder.

There’s a slight possibility that Grantaire’s cheeks are wet by the time they let go of him, but he doesn’t mind too much, just wipes his face off on his sleeve, and sticks out his tongue at Eponine, who hasn’t moved from her seat near the bar.

Eponine does it right back, and Grantaire laughs. She doesn’t need to hug him; she sees him every day, but he still appreciates that she came here tonight.

“Sit down,” Joly says, pulling on the back of Grantaire’s shirt until he’s sitting between Joly and Musichetta, who plants a kiss on his cheek and whispers, “All right?” in his ear.

“I’m all right,” he promises her. He isn’t, but he is better. It feels like he’s balancing on a knife edge that he could fall off at any moment, and it’s exhausting, but he is still balancing.

“Drink?” Bossuet asks, leaning a hip half against their table and half against Joly. 

Grantaire licks his lips automatically. They always feel dry, these days. “Coke?” he says, and tries not to make it sound like a question, hates that it comes out like, _Can I do this?_

“Coming right up,” Bossuet says, like it’s not the first time Grantaire’s ever ordered a soft drink, here.

Grantaire flicks his eyes up and around the room. He knew Enjolras wouldn’t be here, which is why he’s here, but Les Amis still look strange and unbalanced without him.

“He’s working late,” Joly tells him softly, and Grantaire nods, whispering back, “I know,” even though what he actually knows is that Enjolras is deliberately staying away tonight.

“Voila,” Bossuet says, setting a pint glass full of Coke down in front of Grantaire, followed by a packet of crisps. 

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, not sure what he’s done to deserve food, but not really objecting. He’s too nervous to eat, but he likes the feeling of being looked after, a little.

Bossuet clinks his glass against Grantaire’s and nods. “Good to have you back,” he says.

Grantaire smiles.

***

He lasts just over an hour at the Musain, which is much much better than he thought he would. In his worst fears about tonight, he’d pictured himself having a panic attack in the doorway and not even being able to go in. He’d imagined his friends looking sad, but not surprised, and Eponine taking him home.

But that didn’t happen. Eponine didn’t even feel like she had to leave when Grantaire did, so he’s on the bus alone, listening to music on his iPhone and feeling ridiculously accomplished.

He went outside, he socialised, nothing shitty happened. He knows this high isn’t going to last, but it’s so nice. It’s so good to feel like a regular person, just this once.

His phone vibrates with a text and he pulls it out of his bag to find a message from Enjolras. It’s just a single character, just [?], and it makes Grantaire roll his eyes affectionately.

[Success!] he sends back. He debates removing the exclamation mark for a while, but ends up leaving it in. He’s feeling good enough for a little punctuation.

[Good] Enjolras sends back. Then, in a follow-up message, sends a smiley face emoticon. Grantaire didn’t even know Enjolras knew where the emoticons lived on his phone; he’s a brilliant man, but he’s hilariously confused by the frivolous sides of technology.

The bus pulls up to Grantaire’s stop and he hops off, completely forgetting to wave a thank you to the driver until the bus has already driven off. He lets himself into his building, makes it all the way up the stairs to his apartment, then finds he really doesn’t want to go inside.

Inside are the same walls, floors, carpets, and ceilings that he’s been staring at for weeks on end, and he doesn’t want to go back to that. It’s ridiculous, but he feels like if he goes inside, all the good feelings he’s managed to build up tonight are all going to go pop and leave him empty, again.

He sits down on the stairs, digs out his phone, and pulls one ear bud out of his ear, before hitting ‘call.’ He has The Gaslight Anthem in one ear, and a ring tone in the other.

“Is everything okay?” is how Enjolras answers the phone. “Grantaire?”

“Jeez,” Grantaire says. “Calm down.” Smiling is probably the wrong thing to do, since it’s his fault Enjolras is so jumpy about getting an unexpected call from him, but he smiles anyway. 

He hears Enjolras breathe out slowly. 

“Can I tell you about my evening?” Grantaire asks. 

“Yes, of course,” Enjolras says, quickly. “Are you home?”

“Sort of,” Grantaire says and then, because he’s really, really trying this time, adds, “I’m outside the door. Haven’t quite gone inside yet.”

“But everything’s okay?” Enjolras asks again, less frantically, this time.

Grantaire leans against the banisters and closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “No one told me about Marius’s new girlfriend. She’s cute as a button.”

“Eponine didn’t tell you?” Enjolras sounds surprised, which is surprising in itself. Score one for Enjolras’s newfound mission to Pay Attention To His Friends, Grantaire supposes.

“Eponine doesn’t tell me much other than what an idiot I am,” Grantaire says, but he says it fondly. Eponine does exactly what he needs her to do.

“You’re not an idiot,” Enjolras snaps, then coughs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

Grantaire drops his head down onto his knees and groans. “Enj-ol-ras,” he complains, dragging it out into three, discrete syllables. “I’m not going to shatter, if you snap at me. That’s not how this works.”

“That is absolutely how this works,” Enjolras tells him. “A person with depression is much more sensitive to tone and is more likely to interpret it negatively.”

If you could win an argument just by being firmest, then Enjolras would win, hands down. However, it’s Grantaire’s brain they’re talking about, so he thinks he should get final say.

“Did you read that in a pamphlet?” he asks.

“I read it on a website,” Enjolras says. “And in a pamphlet. And Joly told me.”

Grantaire smiles into his jeans, this time. “You’re so fucking ridiculous,” he says. “I wish you were here.”

“I could be,” Enjolras says. Then, “No, I shouldn’t be, should I?”

“You shouldn’t be, but god, I wish you could be.” Grantaire really, really wants Enjolras’s arms around him, which is why Enjolras isn’t allowed to be here. Grantaire would climb inside him, if he could, and patch up the holes in himself with little bits and pieces of Enjolras, and that’s not healthy. He needs to be a whole person first, then he’s allowed Enjolras back.

“Go inside, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, softly. “I’ll stay on the phone, if that’ll help.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, then shakes his head. “No.” It’s the same problem. He doesn’t want to go inside. If he lets Enjolras help him go inside, then he’ll need Enjolras’s help, every time. He has to exist independently, he _has_ to.

“Okay,” Enjolras says, sounding resigned. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Grantaire says. He pulls himself to his feet and turns to face the door. “I’m going in.”

“Good luck,” Enjolras says, and stays on the line until Grantaire’s the one who ends the call.

***

Grantaire wakes up exhausted the next morning. He drags himself to the sofa and doesn’t let himself lie down, even though that’s what he wants to do most of all.

He sits up, legs pulled up to his chest, and watches daytime TV almost silently until Eponine gets up for work.

She walks into the living room already dressed, looks him over, and sighs. “I’m making breakfast,” she says, no question to it.

“Yay, breakfast,” Grantaire says flatly, waving a tiny, celebratory flag of sarcasm.

She smacks him on the back of the head on the way into the kitchen, which he probably deserves. 

Ten minutes later, Eponine clunks a plate of toast, a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee down onto the coffee table in front of him. It’s more food than he’ll eat all day, and she knows it, but he knows better than to point that out.

She climbs over his legs to sit against the other arm of the sofa, bowl in one hand and tea in the other. “Eat.”

“I’m eating,” he says, nibbling on the corner of some toast. She put honey on it, because she does love him, really.

Eponine sighs and turns to watch the TV, while she eats her breakfast and Grantaire does his best to copy her. It’s not that he isn’t hungry, it’s just that chewing and swallowing takes so much effort, and the gnawing hole in his stomach hurts more, when he adds food to it. (It hurts less, if he fills it enough, which is why he used to pour so much booze down his throat. Well, one of the reasons, anyway.)

“Want me to stay home, today?” Eponine asks, without looking at him.

“No, I’ll be okay,” Grantaire says. “I’m just going to sleep.”

Eponine still doesn’t look at him, but the side of her face is very distrustful. It’s not that he blames her; she’s the one who found him the last time he promised her he’d be okay and then really wasn’t.

“I’ll text you every hour,” he says, which finally gets her looking at him. He hates having to report in to anyone, but he really doesn’t want to be the reason she misses work. Again.

“Okay,” Eponine says. She gets up and presses the bowl of now-soggy cereal into his hands. She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” Grantaire says. He turns off the TV as soon as she leaves and just sort of stares, instead. He eats the cereal mechanically, then gets up to wash out the bowl.

He gets as far as putting the bowl in the sink, but the idea of running the water, picking up the sponge, it’s all too much.

“Ugh, I hate you,” he tells his brain, and goes back to the sofa.

***

Eponine texts him, while he’s dozing. [You promised, R.]

He startles, looking back at the clock. He thought she’d been gone twenty minutes at most, but it’s been an hour and ten.

[Sorry, lost track of time. Still here ;) ]

[Don’t winky face at me, you jerk] she sends back, but he knows she’s not really cross with him.

He sets his phone alarm to go off in another hour, then lies back down and closes his eyes.

***

There’s a knock on the door around lunch the next day. Grantaire has both showered and dressed, which he’s feeling pretty proud about. He’s not sure he’s up to actually talking to actual people, though, so he hesitates over opening the door.

Another jaunty knock comes, followed by a clear voice calling, “Grantaire?” through the letterbox . 

“Cosette?” Grantaire asks, and opens the door.

It is, indeed, Cosette. She’s standing on the doorstep in a white dress printed with the silhouettes of black cats, and a canvas shopping bag slung over her shoulder. 

“Hello,” she says, smiling brightly. “Do you like shopping?”

“Um,” Grantaire says. His first instinct is to say no, shut the door, and crawl back to the sofa, but his instincts are terrible, they always have been. “I do?”

Cosette lights up, which Grantaire would have thought was impossible, considering how bright she already was. “Yay,” she says. “That’s great. Do you want to come shopping with me? Marius is hopeless, and so are all his other friends.”

“What about your friends?” Grantaire asks. 

“Oh, I don’t have any friends,” she says, like that’s not horrifying; even Grantaire has friends. She ducks her head and looks up at Grantaire from under his eyelashes. “I mean, I hope I do _now_.”

It’s stunningly, blatantly manipulative; Grantaire is very impressed. “Let me get my wallet,” he says. 

“And some shoes,” Cosette calls after him.

“And some shoes,” Grantaire agrees, and tries to carry her energy with him, while he does his best to get ready.

***

“What about this one?” Cosette asks, holding up another shirt.

“Not that one,” Grantaire says, refusing to take it from her.

She pouts, waving a bright red sleeve at him. “But it’s gorgeous. You’d look great in red.”

“Red’s for Enjolras,” Grantaire says, then stops. “Um.”

“I know about you and Enjolras,” Cosette says, like he’s being silly. “Or, at least, I know as much as Marius does, which probably isn’t everything.” 

Grantaire can’t help laughing at that, and she joins him.

“Yes, poor dear, he’s not very observant, is he?” Cosette says, fondly. She puts the red shirt back and grabs a blue one. “You have to get this one; it’s the same colour as your eyes. Now come on, we’re going to pay for these, and get coffee.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, partly because it’s easier than arguing, but also partly because he likes the shirts and can’t remember the last time he bought any new clothes. Or did any laundry, actually. Shit, he owes Eponine so much.

***

Cosette buys them both coffees and two cake pops, which she splits with Grantaire.

“Did you want to talk about Enjolras?” she asks, stirring her coffee with her cake pop. 

“I always want to talk about Enjolras,” Grantaire says, then laughs at himself. Cosette raises one eyebrow at him, but kindly doesn’t ask. “Sorry, silly in-joke with myself. What did you want to know?”

“Marius thinks you’ve broken up,” Cosette says, “and Courfeyrac won’t tell me anything, but he rolled his eyes a lot when Marius said that.”

“We haven’t broken up,” Grantaire says. “We’re just, we’re not really very good for each other?” He taps his fingers on the table. “No, wait, that’s not right. I get kind of obsessed, and he lets me, and that’s not good. So we’re taking a break, while I learn to be an independent grown-up.”

“That must be hard,” Cosette says softly.

Grantaire smiles at her thinly. “I miss him,” he says. “But, you know.” He shrugs. He doesn’t say _the last time I leant on him too much, I tried to kill myself,_ because that’s a shitty thing to dump on a near-stranger.

Cosette puts her hand over his and squeezes. “Well, at least you have some nice new shirts,” she says, “for the next time he takes you on a date.”

Grantaire laughs, and tries not to _want_ too much.

***

Grantaire is restless and bored. He gets dressed before Eponine leaves for work, and leaves the apartment about ten minutes after her.

He doesn’t have anywhere in mind, but he needs to get out, needs to walk and breathe air that he hasn’t breathed before.

It’s a warm, early autumn day and the sun is shining down on the river. Grantaire stuffs his hands in his pockets and takes the route he always takes, across Pont Neuf and down to Les Tuileries.

He likes the gardens and the fountains and the occasional confused-looking goat, and he likes that he can be near the Louvre, even on days when he can’t go inside.

Grantaire sits down on the edge of a bench, pulls his sketchbook out of his bag and lays it on his lap. He doesn’t have anything in mind that he wants to draw, but he hasn’t drawn for months, and he wants to want to.

He taps his pencil on a blank side of paper, over and over and over, while he tries to remember what it’s like to be inspired.

Taking a deep breath, he sketches one line then another. It doesn’t look like much of anything, but maybe that doesn’t matter. Five minutes later, he decides it really does matter and he rips the page out of his pad, screwing it up and stuffing it in his bag.

“Draw a flower,” Enjolras’s voice says softly from behind him. His hand lands on Grantaire’s shoulder, squeezing, before Grantaire can turn around. “I know you don’t want to see me yet, but I couldn’t just ignore you.”

Grantaire leans back into Enjolras’s hands. “A flower, huh?” he asks. “What kind?”

Enjolras’s thumbs stroke the base of Grantaire’s neck. “Do I look like someone who knows the names of flowers?” he asks.

Grantaire laughs. “I don’t know, I can’t see you. You might have turned into Jehan, while I wasn’t looking.”

“I didn’t,” Enjolras promises. “Draw a red one.”

“I don’t have any colours with me,” Grantaire says, starting to sketch a rose. 

“If you know it’s red, I’ll know it’s red,” says Enjolras, who knows fuck all about art, but always waxes lyrical about Grantaire’s silliest drawings.

“You’re cute,” Grantaire says, sticking his tongue into the corner of his cheek as he concentrates on drawing in the petals. He’s sure a fucking rose shouldn’t take this much effort, but at least he’s hasn’t gotten exhausted and given up, yet.

Enjolras’s fingers slide up into Grantaire’s hair while Grantaire’s drawing, methodically untangling Grantaire’s ridiculous nest of curls. 

“I haven’t combed my hair in about six months,” Grantaire tells him, and decides to add a stem to the rose. 

“Can I?” Enjolras asks.

They probably look ridiculous. Grantaire sitting and drawing, Enjolras standing and combing his fingers through his hair, with Grantaire so carefully not looking at him, but Grantaire has never given a fuck about what strangers think about him. 

Grantaire finishes his drawing long before Enjolras finishes playing with his hair. Each careful tug on his curls sends shivers up and down his spine. He’s not really capable of getting turned on, these days, but it still leaves him feeling warm, low in his belly. 

“There,” Enjolras says, tucking Grantaire’s hair behind his ears in that awkward, gentle way of his. 

“Thank you,” Grantaire says and rips the page out of his sketchbook. He thinks it looks embarrassingly like the rose from _Beauty and the Beast_ , but he knows Enjolras will like it. He passes it back over his shoulder with a quiet, “Here.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire hears him folding the paper carefully, probably tucking it away in his pocket. “Will you be all right?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “Sorry for interrupting your day.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras chides. There’s a soft, warm pressure against the top of his head, which it takes a second for Grantaire to identify as a kiss.

He closes his eyes and waits, listening to Enjolras walk away. Grantaire counts to thirty, then makes himself count to thirty again. Eventually, he can’t be brave anymore and he turns around. 

All he can see is the back of Enjolras’s bright blond head, heading toward The Place de la Concorde. He’s too far away for Grantaire to call him back, even if he wanted to.

***

Combeferre looks surprised when he opens the door and finds Grantaire on the other side of it, but he smiles and invites Grantaire in as though they call on each other all the time.

“‘Ferre,” Grantaire hears himself say. He shouldn’t be here. He hadn’t meant to come here, but today hasn’t been a good day. “Is he here?”

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, like there’s anyone else in the world. “No, he’s at work.” He reaches out and touches Grantaire’s arm, as though he can tell that Grantaire wants to crumble, even though Grantaire didn’t move, at all.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, nodding. He shakes his head then nods again. “Don’t tell him I came ‘round?”

Combeferre keeps his hand lightly on Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire could shake him off, but he doesn’t, because Combeferre usually knows what people need. “Do you want to stay for a while?”

Grantaire thinks about going back to his empty apartment having tried and failed to see Enjolras and nods. “Yeah, please. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Combeferre says, like he’s surprised Grantaire is asking. He sits Grantaire down at the little table in the corner of their kitchen and makes them both hot chocolates.

At Grantaire’s raised eyebrows, Combeferre blushes. “I don’t like coffee,” he says, “and you don’t like tea. I thought this would be a good compromise.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. There’s even a chocolate stick sitting on top, tucked into the cream. He takes it out and munches on the end. “Well, now I know you can make stuff like this, you’re never getting rid of me.”

“That’s fine,” Combeferre says, far too seriously. “I’ve missed having you around.”

Grantaire boggles at him. “I used to come around and alternatively disappear into Enjolras’s room and keep you awake all night fucking, or cry in your shower and probably keep you awake that way, instead.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Combeferre says, looking concerned. Why he’s concerned _now_ , when he already knows how shitty Grantaire’s brain has been to him, Grantaire doesn’t know, but it’s nice, anyway.

Grantaire waves it away. “Anyway. Hi.”

“Hello,” Combeferre says. “You should know, Enjolras framed that picture you drew for him the other day.”

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” Grantaire begs, then covers his face because he’s not, of course he’s not. He peeks at Combeferre through his fingers. “‘Ferre, why is he such a weirdo?”

Combeferre shrugs. “He loves you,” he says. “A lot.”

Grantaire points his half-eaten chocolate stick at Combeferre. “Is that your really nice, Combeferre-y way of telling me I’m being shitty to him?” 

“No,” Combeferre says quickly. “Of course not, I’m proud of you for putting your health first. He just hasn’t been that much fun to live with for the last little while.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says. “If it helps, I miss him like hell.”

Combeferre smiles at him softly. He’s really nice, Combeferre, Grantaire should stop thinking of him as exclusively Enjolras’s friend. “It’ll help, if I’m allowed to tell him that.”

Grantaire thinks about it, then shrugs. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “tell him that.”

***

“You should buy me ice cream,” Gavroche announces, appearing out of absolutely nowhere and linking his arm through Grantaire’s.

“Jesus,” Grantaire says, pressing a hand to his wildly beating heart. “Don’t sneak up on the man with the anxiety condition.”

“You’re fine,” Gavroche says dismissively. “And I didn’t sneak, you just didn’t hear. Come on, ice cream.”

Grantaire looks around pointedly. They’re in the grounds of the hospital, pretty much directly under his psychologist’s window. There are no ice cream places near here.

“Guess we’ll have to go to Montmartre,” Gavroche says.

Grantaire lets himself be tugged along; he’s known Gavroche since he was eight years old and there’s never been any point arguing with him. “Why Montmartre?”

Gavroche shrugs. “Best ice cream,” he says, like everyone should know that.

Grantaire thinks about the two-hour appointment he just struggled through and the new prescription in his pocket. He’d like to sit still and look at the view from the Sacre Coeur for an hour or so. “Yes, okay,” he says, linking his arm more securely with Gavroche’s. “Lead the way.”

***

Grantaire lies on his bed, phone clenched firmly in his hand, and makes himself dial before he chickens out.

“Hi,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is very proud of him for not asking if there’s anything wrong, this time.

“Hi,” Grantaire says. “Do you want to have brunch, tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, so quickly that Grantaire’s not convinced he actually listened to the invitation. He started to say _yes_ around about the _do you want_ part of the question.

Grantaire smiles up at his bedroom ceiling. “Okay, then,” he says. “Pick me up?”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, like there’s no question he’ll play the gentleman. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yep,” Grantaire says, and curls up on his side, still holding his phone.

***

Grantaire wakes up warm and less tired than usual, and it’s so nice, he immediately tries to go back to sleep.

Someone’s put a duvet over him and he’s gone from lying scrunched on top of the bed to spread out properly. It’s kind of troubling that he doesn’t remember that happening, but not enough to really wake up.

He stretches, curls his hand around the pillow under his head, and sighs. 

“Hi,” someone who is definitely not Eponine says, and Grantaire jumps, lovely cosy feeling evaporating.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, forcing himself to sit up. He wraps his duvet around himself like a shield and looks over the top of it at Enjolras who’s standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Were you lurking?”

“No,” says Enjolras, sounding incensed then, “Yes. Maybe.”

Grantaire smiles into his knees, because he’s still and forever hopeless. “Why were you lurking?”

Enjolras is apparently fascinated by the nineteenth century map of Paris framed on Grantaire’s wall. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Creeeeeepy,” Grantaire sings, but smiles when Enjolras turns to glare at him. He rubs a hand over his face, and yawns into his palms. “Couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“It is tomorrow,” Enjolras says. “It’s midday. I…” He hesitates; Enjolras never hesitates. “I let myself in, I’m sorry, but you didn’t answer the door and I worried.”

There’s a little hitch before he says _worried_ , which Grantaire thinks probably means _panicked_. Also, “Fuck, it’s already tomorrow?” He must have slept for fifteen hours. That’s either a really good sign or a really bad one. 

“We can postpone our date, our brunch, if you want to,” Enjolras says. “I just needed to check you were okay.”

“It’s definitely a date,” Grantaire says, smiling when Enjolras smiles. “And I don’t want to postpone. Can you wait while I get dressed and things? I promise not to take too long.”

They used to argue constantly about how long he’d take to be functional in the mornings, Enjolras constantly checking his watch and silently pacing the hall, while Grantaire snapped that he was doing the best he fucking could. This time, Enjolras just nods. “Take your time,” he says.

***

Grantaire forces himself to shower and dress and brush his teeth as fast he can, powering through and not letting himself think about any of it. If he thinks about any of it, it’ll start feeling like an overwhelming chore, and he doesn’t have time for that today.

It works surprisingly well and he’s ready in thirty minutes. 

He lets himself think _Maybe I’m getting better_ , then tucks that away, because it’s a dangerous thought to have.

“Ready,” he says, presenting himself to Enjolras. If he preens very slightly at the appreciative way Enjolras looks at him in his new blue shirt then, well, that’s for Grantaire to know. And maybe Cosette, but only if the whole date goes well.

They don’t need to talk about where to go; they always go to the same place when it’s just the two of them eating together. The cafe three streets away from Grantaire’s apartment sells the most delicious pastries and the best coffee in all of Paris. Enjolras and Grantaire have their own pavement table in the corner, and their own waitress who always sneaks them extra brioches.

Today, she greets them like long-lost friends, squeezing their hands and asking where they’ve been, if they’ve been away.

Enjolras watches Grantaire, obviously waiting to take his cues from him, which is new. 

“I’ve been ill a bit,” Grantaire says, then moves on quickly. “We missed you desperately. You and your magical coffee.”

She dimples at him, but still flaps her notebook at his head. “I can take a hint,” she says, disappearing, hopefully in search of magical coffee.

Enjolras reaches across the table, when she’s gone, touching the side of Grantaire’s hand with his fingers. 

Grantaire closes his eyes. “I’m scared that if I hold your hand, I’ll never let go,” he admits.

“I don’t want you to let go,” Enjolras says, then before Grantaire can argue, “I know you think you’re a burden, but you’re not. I want to be here for you.”

Tears prickle Grantaire’s eyelids. He hates that, hates it so much. “I can’t rely on you,” he says, “I have to do this myself.”

“Nonsense,” Enjolras says, but he says it gently. “It’s okay to have a support network. Joly has one, and you don’t think he’s weak, do you?”

“I don’t think I’m weak, either,” Grantaire says. He smiles at Enjolras, just a little, and watches him smile back. “I can’t backslide again, I don’t - ” He doesn’t think he can do this again, rebuild himself from rock bottom _again_.

“You won’t.” Enjolras lays his hand over Grantaires, but lightly; Grantaire could move his hand away, if he wanted to. “Because we’ll talk to each other, this time. If you need something from me, you’ll tell me, and if it’s something I can’t give you, I’ll tell you.”

A tear rolls down Grantaire’s cheek, but he doesn’t bother wiping it away, not if they’re not hiding from each other, anymore. “That sounds lovely,” he says, and laces his fingers between Enjolras’s.

***

Enjolras walks him home. Grantaire isn’t going to invite him in, no matter how much he’d like to, but he thinks hovering on the doorstep for a while is probably allowed.

“Can I have a kiss?” Grantaire asks. He squares his shoulders and tries to look like he’ll understand if the answer is no.

“Yes, of course,” Enjolras says, but doesn’t move forward. “Uh. How?”

Grantaire opens his mouth, intending to be as sarcastic as possible, then sighs and doesn’t. “Like this,” he says, and pulls Enjolras forward into Grantaire’s space. He puts his hands on Enjolras’s shoulders, since that seems safe, and leans in, pressing their mouths together.

Enjolras shudders, and his breath comes out in a rush, warming Grantaire’s lips. He puts his hands on Grantaire’s hips, lightly at first, but getting tighter and tighter as the kiss goes on. 

It hits Grantaire then, like it hadn’t before, how scared Enjolras must have been, how scared he might still be.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says, against Enjolras’s lips, but even though Enjolras nods, Grantaire doesn’t think he believes him. “I promise. I’m okay.”

He actually is, even if it only lasts for the next day or the next hour, he feels honestly okay, right now. 

“You know I love you?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “Yes. You know I love you?”

“Yes.” Enjolras leans his forehead against Grantaire’s.

 _Well_ , Grantaire thinks, and kisses him again. There isn’t a lot more to say, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I can also be found [on tumblr](http://torakowalski.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Title from The Gaslight Anthem's _Rollin' and Tumblin'_.


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